Why the Daughter of Doctors and a Nurse Birthed her Children at Home

I knew the moment I got pregnant. It wasn't that we were trying - more that we'd stopped trying not to and were letting the karmic chips fall where they may. A little kernel of certainty just popped into my being and that was it. In daylight I laughed it off, thinking of all the people who take years and fortunes to conceive but was still unsurprised when my period didn't come two weeks later. It was confirmed a couple weeks after that when my sister brought an EPT and a bag of Oreos over after I'd told her on the phone that I was "late". That certainty of the pregnancy had rooted at conception as had my own certainty that this was perhaps one of the "rightest" things I'd ever done.

The daughter/stepdaughter of an RN, dermatologist and anesthesiologist, I was all set to go straight into the hospital and dial up my epidural - the "unnecessary" pain I'd heard so much about - no thanks! But then at twelve weeks I had my first visit with the group of female OBGYNs I'd signed up with. Five minutes in a room with a distracted, rushed woman who seemed as excited by my pregnancy as by the texture of the ceiling tiles, she told me to send my typed list of questions to the office administrator as she was out of time. Two weeks later I was herded into a room with twenty five or thirty other pregnant women, handed a copy of the most simple minded pregnancy book ever written, and treated like I had no more sense than a third grader in what was supposed to be my first pregnancy class. I was thoroughly insulted and completely offended. This "miracle" I was in the midst of was being treated as a commonplace illness - I could've been at a flu education seminar. I was severely disappointed in my care and turned to the first place I ever learned to go (beyond my parents) for information: the library. I read Naomi Wolf's Misconceptions and was shocked into action.

A friend three months ahead of me in pregnancy was going the midwife route and encouraged me to meet with them for a chat. Uncertain, I called them up for an appointment and about halfway through my pregnancy Tom and I went to meet them - two women who worked as a team and called their business "One Heart Midwifery". We sat down, they sat down, looked us in the eye, and spent over an hour with us answering every last question we had (again, a long, typed list). The only answer I didn't like was the one about pain medication - none available at a home birth. They weren't militant or defensive about it or in the least judgmental about my nervousness at the fact that it wouldn't be available. But I was absolutely willing after that meeting to go without drugs if it meant that I would be the one in charge of my pregnancy, that I would be treated as an intelligent person, that my husband would be respected and treated as a partner, and that my pregnancy would be treated as a joyful miracle and not as an illness. The midwives didn't think I needed drugs and I needed the midwives - not choosing to birth with them after that meeting would have been like not choosing to live in Paradise after being given a choice between that and Bakersfield.

The difference in care to me was so profound: I had been raised by health care providers who loved their professions, who were truly healers, and who treated all people with profound respect. I'd rarely needed medical care outside of their abilities and when I did was usually treated by a colleague with similar values. This experience with the mainstream women's birth center and my exposure to the statistics of birth in America through Naomi Wolf's book - and the countless other books and articles I read afterward floored me - this was not medicine how I knew medicine to be from my family. I'm not now, nor have I ever been a drug taker or one who shied from pain. If I needed narcotics I generally cut in half my doses and weaned myself off in half the expected time. I went years between doses of acetaminophen or ibuprofen and had been trying to get my parents to embrace herbal and homeopathic remedy teas for years. But my head had been so filled with the notion that pain in childbirth was extreme and unnecessary that it was pretty much all I knew about birth before becoming pregnant and it had me afraid. My new exposure to childbirth through the midwives' patient answering of my questions and the wonderful books on homebirth and natural childbirth allayed my fears. Thanks to my library I know knew enough to be more afraid of hospital birth than homebirth - the statistics were in my favor.

I didn't look back once from my decision. Not forty hours into my first labor with my daughter when I not only asked only half jokingly if they really did have drugs in their medical bag and if not if anyone had a line into some heroin at that moment. You can do this, they told me, and I knew that I could.

Each of my births was complicated for a number of reasons - a petulant cervix each time, a 46+ hour labor with a 9 lb 5 oz girl the first time, a sunnyside-up 9 lb 2 oz boy the second time, an acynclitic 10 lb 11 oz boy the third. All with incredibly large craniums. The midwives told me quite factually, that I'd have been given a c-section had I been in the hospital for each one. I was shocked. They were difficult births, yes, but by no means impossible or dangerous or frightening. If I had only one word to characterize each it would be empowering. And disempowered is how I felt with the mainstream medical route. I'm by no means saying that experience is typical: I'm quite aware that my reaction was more than half the cause of that emotion. There are amazing doctors out there (I should know, I was parented by some) and some terrible midwives and vice-versa. But never did I feel at risk. My midwives need no extra drama in their lives. They are not immune from our litigious society and they need no bad press or shabby safety records. If I or my baby had been in danger at any time it would've been off to the hospital at once. If I had expressed a desire to go to the hospital at any time they would've had me out the door in a flash. Instead, they trusted me. And because they'd taught me to trust my body, my baby, and the fact that as a woman I was quite literally made to birth babies, I trusted in myself and the process and had three amazing home births.

It's not an easy job for them. I in particular make them work. It is not an easy job. My midwives agonized over a recent decision to allot 45 minutes rather than 60 for each and every pre-natal visit for each and every client. They travel to homes all over the area - homes over an hour away, homes of all kinds, clients with every ethnic, educational and financial background there is. They don't have the support of nurses, administrators, on-call OR staff. If it's a long and difficult labor they don't get breaks (except what they give each other), and I require both of them in a hands-on (and in) full court press each time. They come back the day after, then three days after, then a week after for the same lengthy post-natal checkups. When the woman who birthed after me had twins, one of them essentially moved in to the home to assist with breastfeeding and care for the first 48 hours. Can you imagine your typical OB doing that?

I'd dreamed of having a birth that was peaceful and easy - three pushes and into the water comes my baby. I figured the third time around I was due. Instead, the third time was by far the hardest. The pain I'd felt in the first was a fraction of the back labor from the second. And the third blew that one out of the water. I tried to explain to my mother that if I'd known ahead of time how much it was going to hurt - if pain were quantifiable, I would have opted for a c-section. Because you can't choose pain like that and be sane. But I'm so, so glad that you don't know ahead of time because you can always handle so much more than you think. I worry that stating that people might think I regret not having a c-section and the opposite is true: I suppose I need to edit that first part - that if I knew how much it would hurt I'd have chosen a c-section, unless I also knew that I could handle the pain. Pain is unquantifiable (despite the happy face to agonized face scale of 1 to 10 pain charts at the hospital) and our ability to handle pain is equally unquantifiable. We are so, so much stronger, capable of so, so much more than our current medical model allows for.

I would never, ever judge a woman's decision to choose hospital birth over home birth, c-section over natural: birth is incredibly individual and it takes a lot of faith and a lot of education to see past how birth is treated in our country. Above all else we are taught to fear

birth rather than to welcome it, to endure it rather than to celebrate it. I feel so empowered to have been allowed to birth free from fear. It is fear, I believe, that is the great hurdle in the way we birth in our country. So many times I've been told by women "Oh, I couldn't have had a home birth: I had to have an emergency c-section at the last minute because of ..." A myriad of reasons why medical intervention of one kind or another was deemed "essential" by the doctor. I was with my twin as she labored so amazingly through back labor and an incredibly acynclitic positioning of her baby. She did it with a doula, my brother, my mother, me, and her own faith in her body. After three hours of pushing she was sent for a last minute c-section. She's positive that committed, dedicated midwives would have been able to promote a vaginal birth. And I'm not saying it's the doctor's fault for not doing more as I know insurance companies severely tie physicians hands behind their backs which is shocking seeing as I know first hand how necessary it can be to have midwives willing to be extremely hands-on (and in).

I believe the most important outcome of birth should be a healthy baby and mama and that any birth that results in that is a successful birth. But the second most important outcome of birth should be an empowered mother. Parenting is by far the hardest job in the world and there is no room for self doubt in it. But the last thing we are told by our doctors and our drama-addicted media is that we should trust ourselves and the process. We are instead taught to fear. I watched a number of those birth story shows and the hallmark of each is drama. There's got to be a life and death, do or die moment in each one. Another mother of a child in my daughter's class had a baby a week before me - two hours of labor and one push - and I know they could have made that a life or death drama. We need to individually and as a society wean ourselves of the need for crisis and fear as a way to define our worth or quantify our suffering.

None of my births were easy. Easy birth isn't a guarantee no matter where or how you choose to deliver. Ironically, this last birth I had was pretty dramatic. But not scary. I've told the dramatic details to friends and family but I worry that it seems to have been blown out of proportion in its retelling within the community. Or morphed out of the framework in which I see it: yes it was dramatic but it was a huge success and a huge joy. The result was a healthy baby, and a healthy mama who while she is recovering from a heck of a physical ordeal isn't recovering from surgery. It was by far the hardest thing I've ever done but also one of the best. There are three others in the best category. And since I've done it and earned it (and don't have to do it again) I wouldn't change it. My first two children got to witness their brother's entry into this world. They cut his cord and they witnessed some of the labor that got him here. I believe it has made their acceptance of him so seamless, eliminated jealousy and inspired the constant kisses and hugs. They were never afraid either, because we weren't.

I love birth stories. I love hearing women tell the stories of their labors and deliveries from the funny to the tragic and everything in-between. I believe the more we bear witness to the accomplishment and power of our births the more we can own those stories, learn from them, choose our paths from the truths they offer us. We empower each other through the telling and listening. My friend Jenn attended this last birth with us. At my first birth my mother and sisters were present and that was wonderful (although my mother does not cherish the memory of seeing her daughter in pain). My brother was at the birth of my first son and there is a wonderful joy and bond from that. Jenn had her last two children with these midwives and is my longest and dearest friend from this community of ours and my children know and love her so we asked her to attend this birth and be their support. Her trust and faith in home birth and in the midwives and in me was essential in this birth because of its intensity and its drama. Her faith, humor and smile was steadfast. I can't imagine a more perfect person to have present and I'm grateful for the depth it has added to our bond.

My husband has been on board with home birth from that first meeting with the midwives. It's always been simple in his eyes. In fact his faith in me and the process made him state that he thought we could do it solo the third time. I don't know if he was kidding or not or if he knows if he was kidding or not but I know that the midwives were essential because of their vast knowledge and expertise with birth. It was entirely hands on. The most important thing in all three births was his unflinching faith in me and in the process of birth. He never exhibited fear, doubt, and shockingly even impatience (eve after three and a half hours in a tub of water). His commitment to the team we are, to being absolutely present and open and steadfast was essential to the success of the births. Although I would expect no less and am unsurprised by this, my gratitude is endless and my certainty in my choice of a life partner, husband and teammate constantly renewed.

I opened a package from my midwives yesterday: a beautiful silver necklace in a simple outline of a pregnant woman's torso. In the belly a hollowed disc with the word HOMEBIRTH stamped around it, and hanging in the hollow that represents the womb the birthstones of my three children. I've heard of women receiving diamonds or emeralds form their spouses as birthing gifts but this simple treasure is far more valuable to me: it says "I chose this path and I trusted it and myself and we will reap its rewards each and every day we live." My gratitude to those two women is lifelong and bottomless.

Clavey Brooks Freer is a sweet, sweet boy. My love for him is boundless. Although mid-labor I was testing names for him that included "Tank Motherfucker Freer" for the pain he was putting me through, I realized immediately upon his arrival that it had been a difficult journey for him as well. (Which is a good thing given the explaining he would've been doing about his name all his life.) As my husband said a day afterward "Already life is unimaginable without him - it's like he's always been here and I can't remember what it was like before he came." His siblings and grandparents all adore him and his community has welcomed him so effusively. The meals delivered to our house have been lifesavers each time. I'm so saddened it will have to end and I'll have to cook each and every day again. It does take a community or a village - and a team of kickass midwives. I am cherishing each time he nurses, his love of eye contact, the way he curves into our bodies and needs us so completely. He is a miracle, a gift, a treasure and I can't wait to see who he will become at each and every step of his life. Welcome, my love.

I just now read this article titled A Woman's Nation: Reclaim Your Right to Birth Right and written by Christiane Northrup MD appeared today in the Huffington Post:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/christiane-northrup/c-section-or-natural-birt_b_323422.html

Rock on!

Gratitude

Alright, I'm officially over whining my way through this pregnancy. I am so grateful that you have all unflinchingly listened to my litany of sorrows, but honestly, enough is enough.

I am lucky.

First, with the pregnancy. Yes, I've had some aches and pains and so on, but I have not been placed on bed rest, have not had life-threatening complications, my blood pressure is something absurd like 98 over 59. My ankles are not swollen, my ultrasound looked great and the baby's heart rate has stayed at a constant and cool 140ish for the last month. He's a cool dude, with a nice left hook and a penchant for using my cervix as a trampoline. No underweight, NICU needing babe in this belly.

As this guy didn't listen to my plan for an arrival two to three weeks ahead of his due date, I've had some time to reflect. I am 39, which has given me some serious bouts of fear during this pregnancy. But what will be, will be. I think fear has been a bit behind my whining. But no more. I'm somewhat afraid that we haven't come up with the perfect name yet. Although we may have - we have to meet the little guy to know for sure what to call him.

Second, I am just plain lucky with my health. I've been engaging and hearty and long debates about health care with as many reticent conservatives as possible. I have on occasion shook with anger at the stories from people unable to obtain medical care or rendered bankrupt because of the cost of healthcare. I am ashamed that we don't take care of our citizens, that through the practices of our government we prioritize corporate financial health far above human health. Last night I was going through the last 5 years of medical and insurance records in preparation for kissing Anthem/Blue Cross as our insurance company goodbye. For as little as my family has needed medical attention, there sure has been a lot of paperwork and a lot of battling with our insurance company for coverage of those very few and minor appointments. This year I've seen my surgeon once and Sawyer had stitches and that's the extent of our medical visits (other than the midwives, of course). We have been blessed with great health, and we work hard at staying healthy. We've been lucky to not have major issues beyond our control. So lucky. But there are plenty of people who aren't, and who's to know when one of those people might be one of us. That fight for health care reform in our country is by no means abstract for me. It feels like it could be a life and death fight for any of us at any time. How lucky that we finally have a president brave enough to be pushing the issue to the forefront.

Third, I am so grateful for the life I have: two healthy children who make my heart swell with pride, a wonderful (and healthy) husband who always takes my breath away with my realization of love for him, and my sense of being a team. Employment. A home. Working vehicles. A wonderful community full of friends who never stop asking how they can help, never stop dropping off hand me downs or making me laugh. There is nothing in my life I can take for granted, from parents whose generosity in providing opportunities to celebrate together is constant and so appreciated, to siblings whose love and support is constant. Actually, I think I could take these things for granted, but I refuse. I am far too grateful, too aware of how precious they are and of how rare they are.

This little guy may take his time in emerging into this amazing and tumultuous world, but I am resolved to enjoy the last of it experiencing a healthy pregnancy, the wonder of new life inside of me, the anticipation of my children and community and family ready to welcome him however and whenever he arrives with arms and hearts wide open.

A week or two ago, Jordan was very frustrated with her brother at bath time and she marched him into the bathroom and into the tub and made him listen to her read the book "Peaceful Piggy Meditation." Pretty soon the bath and the book had them in a wonderful place and they left it half unread on the floor. I'm not sure what the inspiration was this morning, but as I was taking a shower, they came in and read the rest of it together. I realize so much of the amazing lessons and moments of wonder are given to me courtesy of my children. This is just the latest. From the littlest. My life is far more full of blessings than of troubles, far more full of comfort than of discomfort. And I am so, so grateful for it all. What joyful abundance.

What Not to Say to a Pregnant Woman

It's fascinating to be looked at in horror. When you're simply shopping at the grocery store. This expression is seen almost exclusively on the faces of men and teenagers.

Women wince. When dropping off children at school, stooping to get mail from the mailboxes on the corner. Especially ones who have been there. Such is the affect a woman in her final days of pregnancy has on other people.

It is a common belief that there is a significant amount of forgetting that goes along with delivery - you forget the depth of the pain or else you wouldn't have more than one. You forget the exhaustion and discomfort and indignities of pregnancy. But there are some things you just shouldn't ever forget: honestly - a woman who has given birth before should not for any reason ask an expectant mother "When's that baby coming?" Because you never have any freaking idea. And that one fact perhaps chafes more than any other in the final weeks. Unless you have a C section scheduled, that baby will come when it comes. Which is why I think of the final stage of pregnancy as simply giving in. Like the Wicked Witch of the East and her skywriting message of "Surrender, Dorothy", that baby will not come out until you relinquish any notion of control over the process.

But my surrender is only to the process and the baby. What I will not surrender is my right to punch in the face the next man who tells me "Whoa! You're gonna pop!" (Gee, thanks. I was feeling so svelte.) If I could pop, that might provide instantaneous relief. Instead I know ahead of me lies hours of contractions. Followed by pushing from a rather small place in my body a rather large being. Rarely a "pop" to be heard unless some kind soul has provided bedside champagne service. The sound of breaking a man's nose with a loud, satisfying "pop" would allow for a modicum of relief, however. And if tried pregnant, I can't see a male judge (afraid of what might make the belly actually explode) or a female judge (both estrogen and empathy begin with e) rendering a verdict of guilty.

So please, don't ask me if he's coming soon because not soon enough is the only right answer, and people like to associate a big round belly with being jolly, not with being snippy and bitchy. Don't ask me how I feel because the only answer is pregnant. (I always feel a bit more honest in the negativity of my responses around teenagers as I feel it provides them with birth control motivation versus that fairytale falsehood they sometimes imbue pregnancy with.) And it doesn't come out sounding positive. Don't tell me I'm going to pop, point out that I'm huge, or make a face or do something you think might make you seem funny and witty like step back with your hands up and a look of horror on your face. I love the honesty of women who allow me my grumpiness and discomfort. I can't stand the women who told me how much they loved being pregnant.

I of course never mind the women who tell me I look amazing or beautiful and that the only place I've gained an ounce is my belly. If you tell me the baby hasn't yet dropped I am liable to drop on top of you to see if it might change your mind. If I have never met you before, it is not your place to recommend stimulating my nipples to me while gesturing at my chest with your unfamiliar hands. Nausea and vomiting can occur in the last trimester after all. Don't tell me I've picked a lousy time of year to have a baby because it's not like I can change it and it's also not true - there's not a bad time to have a baby. Don't tell me that your neighbor almost died in childbirth, in detail about the horrors of each of your births with the attitude that no one has ever suffered as much as you did. Remind me of the joy of the new baby, laugh with me at the indignities of the process, and tell me you are certain it'll all go smoothly and quickly. I might just let you live.

Disclaimer: I've been told the humor in this entry may be somewhat harder to find. I love it (for real) when my friends and family make jokes about my pregnancy, my size, etc. THey are excluded form What Not to Say. After all, it was my very own daughter who told me a couple of months ago, " It's funny, mama, but it kinda seems like when your belly gets bigger your bootie gets bigger, too." xoxo

The Best Dog Ever

This is a post I don't want to write, never thought I'd ever have to write. After all, if you are lucky enough to have the best dog ever, you kind of think that immortality is one of the conditions. But what's always made Austin so special isn't some collection of superpowers but just his basic, well, humanity. He turns twelve in December and we thought he'd last a few more years beyond that. He spent about seven or eight years as a puppy, after all, and didn't start showing his age until this year. He's such a big beauty of a dog that his declining health is deceptive - his thick, lush coat that I cursed at often enough during the twelve shedding seasons a year hides weight loss stylishly. And he's always been mellow, so when he got really, really mellow it didn't seem so dramatic. Mostly, though, our inability to really see his deterioration has more to do with denial than anything else. Life without Austin has never been conceivable since life with Austin began.

When Tom and I had just been dating for a few months, we still lived in separate places. He was visiting me in LA and we made a rare trip to a mall, this one in Santa Monica, to buy him some new clothes. An unusual experience as anyone who knows Tom will understand. Up on the second floor of the mall we were drawn to a woman petting a puppy in a milk crate on a bench. We approached and she told us that a homeless woman owned him and told her she was going to take him up into the hills to let him live with all the other animals as he was getting too big to hide in her backpack when she went into the shelter at night. This woman, Jenny, was trying to convince the homeless woman (whom I recognized from the street outside the bar where I worked in Santa Monica) to give her the puppy. She didn't want another dog, but she didn't want this one to be "set free" in the mountains, either. One look at the damp puppy in the crate told why: clearly underfed with mange evident on his ears and a candy necklace for a collar, he'd be a quick snack for a coyote or a mountain lion. He cocked his head to one side with one ear up and one folded down, and looked at us with his huge eyes, and that was it. He owned us.

A mall security guard emerged and began harassing the homeless woman, and in her paranoia she grabbed the milk crate and fled. We'd been at the scene for an hour or so and all three of us followed the woman out into the dampness of an early February day on the open Santa Monica walking mall. Jenny told us she was going to follow the woman and try to get the puppy from her. If she was successful, she said, we could pick him up the next day at the animal shelter.

Having been somewhat non-committal about everything in our lives 'til then - we were after all an actress dating a seasonal river guide - this was a big deal. We showed up early at the shelter and were disappointed to not have the puppy listed anywhere on the intake sheet. Turning to walk out we saw a sign: "Heather and Tom: Call Jenny: 999-9999". We looked at each other, took the sign and repaired to the tailgate of Tom's truck to talk about it. After a half an hour spent listing all the reasons we shouldn't do it, Tom said "Oh, who are we kidding. If we weren't going to do this we wouldn't have spent all this time talking about it." We drove to Jenny's and when we walked through the door, Austin looked up at us and promptly peed all over the floor. We were in love.

We shared custody of Austin that spring until we moved in together in Groveland. We had a crate for him in Los Angeles and a runner on the deck of the Groveland Guide House. He had a penchant for chasing deer and eating cow poop. He would have graduated first in his dog training class but missed the last session after being hit by a car on the highway, crossing to get at a deer carcass on the other side of the road. Tom and I were both runners, and he was the perfect running dog, tireless and joyful and always game despite the weather. He trained with me for four marathons and when I got pregnant with Jordan when he was five he suddenly became protective of me, standing in front of me rather than behind me when a strange dog or person approached. He paced outside or lay as close to me as he could during the birth of both children, and so it's been unusual for him not to be following me around this time.

Austin was the first real grownup thing I did. And twelve years later I sit in the house I own with two children and one on the way, a business we own, and a whole trail of adult decisions I've made and commitments I've kept lining the path to this point in my life. Austin taught me to be an adult because he was the first thing I committed to in my adult life (Tom was a given - we were in it together from the beginning whether we admitted it or not - Austin was the fist clear evidence of this). He was the first thing I really had to take care of and take responsibility for. I remember in that conversation on the tailgate of the truck Tom saying "Dogs live for a long time. This is a long term commitment." And now it seems not nearly long enough.

Maybe it's because of his presence all through my "real" adult life that I feel sort of scared looking at the rest of it without him. He was there for the birth of Jordan and Sawyer and now will likely not be here for the third child. He taught them both to walk and endured plenty of abuse at both their tiny hands without ever treating them with anything but gentleness. He spent five years living at a campground near a river and now that our home is a couple hundred yards down the road, he thinks it's still his home despite the "No Dogs, No Exceptions" signs.

He's accompanied us on river trips, camping trips, hiking trips, road trips. I was looking for pictures on him in my computer album and was somewhat amazed: there were lots of pictures taken of him until we had kids, then fewer and fewer. But in every picture we do have, Austin is always in the background. Even if you can't see him in the picture, you know he's there: just off to the side in photos of the kids playing outside or at the park, lying somewhere close while we open Christmas presents. He's there in every one. And I hope that's how it feels when he's gone. Because his absence would be unendurable. I want him always just off to the side. His gentle, loving presence always a part of our family. I know he'll be with me on every run or walk I go on.

Update:

I was of course sobbing my heart out when I wrote this post, the vet having told us not to wait too long to bring him in to be put to sleep. But then he began to eat lunchmeat, his dog food prepared the way we made it when he was a puppy recovering from the health horrors of his early months: with egg, milk and olive oil added. He began first to wag his tail just a bit more, to gain a little weight, some of the redness in his eyes to reduce, and to want to go outside in the full moon to bark at the phantoms. He's following me around and keeping Nala in line, and we are so grateful to have him with us for however long we're granted this reprieve. It's taught us a good lesson of not taking anything or anyone for granted, for taking the time to give the ones you love a little scratch behind the ears. It's made me more gentle in training Nala, and more grateful for all the blessings I have in my life. Maybe Austin does have superpowers after all.

Fluid Logic

Summers in Lotus are such a study in contrast: the heat of the day and the infalliable coolness of the night, the baking dry heat of each clear blue day, and the stunning icy cold of the river to bring you back to joy. 

Ok, I'm pregnant, so the heat/cold thing seems to be taking an awful lot of my consciousness despite the fact that this is easily the mildest summer I've ever felt here. But there is plenty of other contrast in the summer as well - the rush and hurry of getting to swim team, doing a shuttle, leading the children to sleep before the dragon scales show all the way through their skin. And the ultimate contrast, life and death.

A death occurred on the river this summer and it amazes me how it brings back into stark focus what exactly it is we do, what a great leap of faith it is. The death on the river was a tragic accident, no one to be blamed, no one to be punished, plenty to be learned by all. A passenger fell out of a boat in a place where daily tens of people fall out of their boats. I have swum this particular rapid a couple of times, and know people who have done it in rafts, duckies, tubes, riverboards, kayaks and pool toys. We took our children on it early this summer for their first time. They loved it. The man who died was rafting with a good organization who were running the river with excellent safety procedures in place. No one to blame.

And yet he died. And every day we offer people the opportunity to raft this same rapid, to trust us, our equipment, our guides, their judgement. And we can never promise them safety because, as we tell our children, you alone are responsible for your body. We can control only so much, and then we give it up to faith. And hope. 

When the accident happened, Tom went and studied the pictures to find out exactly what happened. He went to the rapid at low water to see what the rocks looked like. He brought our crew to the rapid to show them where and why and how and to remind them that it is a matter of life and death, this guiding job. And he mourned. 

I was reminded why this occupation is a perfect one for him: because he cares about it so much, believes in it so much, and takes on the responsibility of it completely. And because he loves the magic it creates for people who choose to raft it, and he loves the people who choose that magic. He's never been bored on the South Fork and I'd trust him to guide me on any river he deemed runnable. He finds the fun, the joy, the beauty, the adventure in it every single day. I know there is not another company owner or manager who chooses to guide the river every possible chance just to be a part of that joy. He gives it that respect, and he also gives it it's due as a place where tragedy can happen. Every summer he falls in love with the river and every summer I fall in love with that part of him again as well. 

Sometimes I forget that I used to be a guide, that I spent four solid summers constantly on the water taking boat after boat of passengers down. This unwieldy pregnant body seems in contrast to the one people entrusted their lives and their children's lives to. I forget until a passenger comes back, telling a story about the last time they were on the river and I realize I was their guide and we laugh that there's been a picture of me and them in the middle of a rapid on their mantle for the last seven years. I have to remind myself to own that part of my past, to let it be a part of the mom I am now.  We don't have many pictures of us on the river: it's something so normal, so common an occurrence. We don't take pictures of ourselves going to work or to school, doing the everyday things.

On days off that used to be rare but are all to plentiful in this summer of recession, we choose the river: blowing up a raft (loosening the life vest straps another inch each week) and going through the motions to travel three miles on water with our children and friends on Class II riffles. We are always different at the end than we were at the beginning, always glad we made the effort, took the time.

Because there is an inexplicable magic to a river. And it takes my breath away each and every day I spend in it, next to it, on it. The kids and I do shuttles three or four times a week and it's inevitable that we wind up in the river each time. Usually we plan for it, wearing swimsuits to take-out and following the winding down of summer through the waning depth of the reservoir, each day a steeper and longer climb down to the water. Sometimes it's a surprise on a morning shuttle: its still cool when we leave the house and by the time the boats are blown up and the safety talk is happening, we're at least partially immersed. 

Camp Lotus is our favorite, of course, our second home. The kids have learned to swim on the shallow banks there, moving gradually into the current whose power they know to respect. At the end of a day I show up on it's banks tired and hot and all too often grouchy and am rebirthed instantly each time I jump in as it washes away the heat, the exhaustion, the stress and leaves me cooled down and blissed out and back in the moment. The joy floods back into my consciousness and I am grateful and awestruck at what an amazing place I live in, how lucky my children are to have these summers of  raw bliss, of endless fun with friends making sand castles, imagining and playing out great characters and stories, and swimming in water that is theirs only for a moment before rushing on. 

"Night and day the river flows. If time is the mind of space, the River is the soul of the desert. Brave boatmen come, they go, they die, the voyage flows on forever. We are all canyoneers. We are all passengers on this little mossy ship, this delicate dory sailing round the sun that humans call the earth. Joy, shipmates, joy." Edward Abbey, The Hidden Canyon - A River Journey

The Heart Outside Your Body

We live in this fabulous oasis of a community: the river is the heart of it, flowing straight through the middle: we have friends on both sides and with all it's twists and turns and bridges, it's only from the river you really get an idea of the lay of the land. Parcels are generally five acre minimums, close enough to feel neighborly but not crowded and so it feels wild - especially with campgrounds and nature reserves and amazing walking, biking and hiking trails on Conservancy dedicated land patchworked through. There are tangles of wildflowers and trees, wild animals and wild locals and it's a place so special thousands of tourists visit each year. It's an amazing place to raise a child.

And a terrible place to lose one.

Even prefacing this with the fact that there is a happy ending can't eliminate the knife-in-stomach fear for the parents I tell it to - maybe it's the fact that they can so easily transpose their own child into the story, that because of how tight knit (despite the five acre parcels) we are, they know me or my daughter well enough to feel what we felt.

There is a beautiful campground across the river and down a few miles from where we have our river company. One of our groups was camping there and so we were there for two nights and two mornings cooking dinner and breakfast. A simple path skirts the campground from upper parking lot to the campsites to the river access to the outdoor kitchen and dining area. Probably an eighth of a mile in total. The property bordering it upstream is a lovely local hiking area with a simple 1.1 mile trail that meanders along the river for a few hundred yards. The whole area is easily identifiable as former mining territory with rock tailings piled into meandering raised beds easily construed as paths. Animals or humans have carved more definable paths into the piles and the possible diversions for exploration are endless. Especially for a curious six year-old. On the first night, Jordan and Sawyer meandered down a path together and were just identifying that they were indeed lost when Tom found them. We had a good talk about being lost and what to do and not do, and there seemed to have been just enough of and edge to the experience to keep them wary of future wanderings. But Hansel and Gretel left out the part about what happens when there's the roiling emotions of a six year old in transition involved.

Two mornings later we were back and having refereed a fight about a dandelion that came out to Sawyer's benefit, my daughter was sulking and gave only a pouty nod to my "breakfast in five minutes" guideline. Eight minutes later I wandered the trail while nibbling a piece of cantaloupe, fully expecting her to appear and join me in a quick resolution of her emotions on the walk back to breakfast. On round two I made a wider loop, beginning to foray onto the potential trailheads, and increasing quite noticeably the volume of my calls despite the early hour. Round three I picked up Sawyer, now long done with his breakfast and asked him to show me the "secret hiding place" they'd discovered in case she was silently ignoring my calls. (I'm thinking of surgically attaching a GPS unit to the poor child. It wasn't a helpful endeavor and we both have poison oak in spots.) We made it all the way to the adjacent hiking trail and knowing he wasn't going to manage the one mile loop with any speed I was bringing him back and intending to go back for round four, the now worried guides joining in the search. Suddenly some one called "Here she is, Heather."

Running up the road, I found my crying daughter attached to the hand of a lovely twenty-something woman, blond and athletic and looking quite eerily the picture of who my daughter could be in another fifteen years. She had indeed found her on the adjacent trail. "She was sobbing," said the angelic young woman in running shoes and shorts, "she was so sad It made me tear up. But at least she knew where she was supposed to be so I walked her back here." There were tears in the poor woman's eyes and after hugging Jordan I shook her hand and then enveloped her in a hug. She had rescued my daughter, and even in her strong and able and youthful invincibility she connected so clearly to that feeling of loss and of being lost that I felt a ping of sadness for her, thinking already she could see through to this side of parenthood: the possibility of loss. Or maybe it was her empathy for Jordan that caused her tears, a connectedness still to childhood - she was a perfect figure to bridge mother and daughter, whatever her experience.


Never have my feelings been so conflicted about my daughter and what to show her. But her fear was palpable enough. I don't have to write what I said: its the same script any parent would have for a found child, the same one for when my mother found my sister who had lost herself purposefully at about the same age in our living room curtains, more terrified to give herself up to the crime of which I'd promised to tattle on her for than to answer the calls of my mother. When the police cars with their flashing lights showed up, her eyes grew wider and her confusion greater: were they there to punish her for her crime or to help to find her? I can see the confusion now in my mother's eyes, the flood of relief and the anger: I love you so much I could kill you for scaring me so with the potential of your loss.

The morning didn't turn magically into one of seamless redemption - clearly I'm no Ma Ingalls. My frayed nerves and the over-tiredness of both my children translated into an escalation of emotion. After a fight between the two of them over a cookie in the Camp Lotus store brought us to a pinnacle, I called my own mother to confess my sore throat from yelling at my children. And got to feel her fear and pain mirroring my own: after all, she loves my daughter, and she knows me now as both a mother and a daughter. I'm so filled with gratitude she's there for me to talk to. At these moments I so clearly still need a mama of my own.

These are the times when you connect with the comment "I aged five years in that moment," and yet you swear to yourself that you will never die of old age (no matter how quickly they cause it) or anything else: after all, you have to stick around for the rest of their lives to protect them. Raising children seems such a delicate balance: loving them so much you never want them out of your sight (much less your house), and at the same time allowing them the independence and strength to become their own person. Likely one who will be driven crazy by you just as much as they drive you crazy and so you will want them to fly on their independent wings as wonderfully high as they possibly can.

After just a few weeks of being a mother, I was walking bleary-eyed and in shock around my small cabin and picked up a tiny book on motherhood someone had attached to a gift. This small quote brought me to my knees in its profundity even at that stage: "Making the decision to have a child - it's momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." - Elizabeth Stone

Growing From Seed

My true nature as an annoying optimist is never more apparent than when I am in the garden. Given the potential for frustration, it is amazing (my husband might have another name for it) that I continue to try. But there is no better balm for my soul than gardening. Plus, it's one heck of a great place to spend time with the kids. In the glorious rain we actually had this May, the children spent hours getting soggy and absolutely covered in mud, rejoicing in each and every worm they found, diligently pulling up weed after weed, dropping seed after hopeful seed into the finger holes I made, or scattering handfuls like wishes, lined up in careful rows.

Last year was the year of the mole and gopher (no Chinese calendar here, this was a hostile takeover). Tom, either in defeat or what I'd rather see as undaunted support built me eight gorgeous raised beds this winter and spring. We have a lovely harvest of onions in our pantry now, and seedlings popping up in every one, unthreatened by burrowing rodents. In all that garden space still left, however, are three rows of corn, an archway of peas, many rows of cutting flowers, and the cabbage, broccoli and chard left over from the winter plantings. (One less corn plant as of yesterday, actually, and one new gopher hole. I'm thinking of not feeding the cats for a few weeks to make them a little more inspired.)

This year we've had the most unbelievable harvests of strawberries - at least a pint a day, and those are what make it into the baskets. My children are pink-lipped and finger tipped and thriving on extra vitamin C. But two days ago while picking, we noticed an infestation of black beetles on a plant. And a new war was waged. Sawyer joined me in the garden yesterday while Jordan was at school, dressed in his latest uniform of shorts and cowboy boots, and armed with a squirt bottle of soapy water. For thirty minutes he diligently and thoroughly sprayed every strawberry plant. And then last night the skies opened and washed clean each and every leaf. So we'll see who comes back. But, to my great joy, my children love being in the garden with me, and I love not having my iPod on, hearing instead the tinkling noises of their words and laughter, the exclamations of excitement, the sounds of their little hoes pinging off the rock hard dirt.

On the way back into the house yesterday, Sawyer called out from ten feet back, "Is this the same snake from before?" and I turned to see him holding a small, curved unmistakably snake body, definitely not the 3 foot long roadkill garter snake brought onto the property and enjoyed by the kids by the previous week. "Sawyer, put down the snake and step away while mama sees what kind it is, okay?" Running, keeping the fear out of my voice. It's a half of a snake, a garter again, it's head devoured either by a cat or the mower. As we walk towards the house together, Sawyer says "The snake is a little bit sad because it doesn't have a head anymore. But it's okay because we still love it." My children often take my breath away with examples of their kind and nurturing hearts. True gardeners from their souls on up.